The day I took control of New Facet, I couldn't help but feel just a little bored. Surrounded by almost all of my closest friends, alive and well, I should have been elated, but I wasn't.

Anybody who keeps up with the newspapers would attribute this to the sudden disappearance of my relatives. Suffering from trauma, the poor teen. Taking up the world's largest investigating firm must be stressful.

Actually, I think Mello rendered me apathetic to the celebration. It's true that I mourned for my father, but the wound of his death has been patched over pretty nicely. He'd be upset if I dwelled too long on his murder, anyway. And controlling the family business was much easier than surviving my assorted aunts and uncles and cousins.

Even my adventure ended up costing so many lives, I don't regret it, for the most part. Maybe I'm not as pure as Mello thinks.

That Tuesday, cars sent sprays of rain to designer jeans and coat-less pedestrians all along Main Street. I was fortunate enough to have brought an umbrella with me, but my suitcase wasn't doing as well. At the pedestrian crossing, I paused to shake off excess liquid, somewhat futilely. As I bent over a man passed by me. Through my peripheral vision, I saw his soaked sneakers send ripples through deposits of water.

Then I saw tires.

Without thinking, I sprang up and caught the man by the hood of his canary jacket. Water stained my striped shirt, once, as it flew off of his body, and twice, as the van barreled past and drenched us both.

"Oh my god!" he exclaimed.

"Are you alright?" I asked, shaking water out of my hair.

"Yeah, I'm alright...oh my god, you saved my life!" He seemed to be in shock.

When I looked directly at him, I was reminded of my father, only younger. He had the same cheerful expression, bearish build, and brown eyes.

I laughed. "And I saved that driver the trouble of having to go to prison for the rest of his life! We're all happy, I guess!"

"Man, it would have been ironic if I got offed by a car! How can I repay- oh, here, Ginger!"

He retrieved a tissue and a pen from his pocket and scrawled his number on it. "Keep this number. If you're in any trouble or anything, just call."

"I doubt I'll get into anything bad," I said, but pocketed the napkin anyway.

"You never know, Ginger. So, where you heading to?"

"Airport. Going on vacation to England."

He straightened and grinned. "So'm I! Only, not on vacation. Got some work to do."

"Oh, really? What do you do?"

His grin widened. "I'm a professional hitman," he proudly declared.

To my credit, I didn't gape. Instead, I said, relatively evenly, "Well. I'll keep your number safe, definitely."

He roared with laughter and slapped me on the back. "I like your style, Ginger."

"You can call me Matt."

"You can call me Deston, Ginger. I think Ginger fits you."

What were the odds that I'd save the life of an assassin? At the time, I didn't want to think about how many people I might have doomed by pulling Deston from the path of that vehicle.

Well, he turned out to be very proficient at his job, as my relatives soon learned.